


crypts

by nymja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr fill, spoilers for 8x2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 15:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18626002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: Her voice is quiet when she begins: “Valar-”“Oh, don’t you fucking start.”--for the prompt: gendrya, bridal carry





	crypts

“Shut up and put me down!” **  
**

He scowls, bringing up his knee so he can kick the door open in front of them. “I’m not fucking saying anything!”

In his grip, she twists, and if either she were uninjured or he was a half second late on the uptake, she would’ve gotten out of the hold he has on her. As it was, he has to settle for a sharp elbow striking against his chest.

He can’t see anything in the crypts, but he hears the snarls behind them. They’re getting closer, metallic noises scraping the stone. There’s something warm dripping down the back of his hand, and he doesn’t want to think about it being Arya’s blood.

“They need me!” She protests, and this time he hears the tremble in it. The panic. Whatever it is she saw down there, it did something. Something awful.

“‘Course they do,” he says–completely pissed and afraid and sincere. “And what’re you going to do for them with that leg and that arm? Die?”

He feels the slight shake of her shoulders where she’s pressed against him.

Her voice is quiet when she begins: “Valar-”

“Oh, don’t you fucking start.” He shifts, so most of her weight is resting on one arm. With the other, he reaches for a ladder that will, hopefully, lead them somewhere they can bandage or cauterize the wounds.

“Gendry-”

He grunts, lifting up their combined weight. Rung by rung. They reach the top, and he breathes a sigh of relief to see they’ve reached an empty room. He sets her down, glaring at her in a warning not to move, then tears the ladder from the wall and throws it into the darkness below. Exhaling, he turns back toward her, and starts ripping at the sleeve of his shirt. She’s glaring at him, but she starts to pry the fabric away from her wounds. She’s entirely too pale. His heart thumps violently in his chest.

Gendry bends down, starts wrapping the fabric around her leg. In the distance, the sounds grow louder–rasping, groaning. Screaming.

He ties the makeshift bandage, not trusting himself to look her in the eye.

“You don’t get to be the love ‘em and leave ‘em type,” he mutters, mouth dry.

“You don’t tell me what to do.”

“I don’t think anyone in the world tells you what to do.”

He moves to her arm, but then her fingers rest on his jaw. They’re cold. They  softly trace the planes of his face. He looks up.

“My dagger?” She whispers, expression resolved.

His eyes search out hers. He doesn’t see anything in them that makes him feel better. But his hand goes to the holster at his waist, and he flips it so the handle is first.

Arya nods, takes it. He rests his forehead against hers. They share a breath, then two.

“Ready?” She asks.

“Yeah alright,” he says.

Arya struggles into a stand, but after the initial sway quickly rights her footing. “Stay behind me.”

He grabs the axe from its place at his back.

The dead grow louder.


End file.
